The tangle of limbs, the awkward weight of flesh.
The sweetness of the curve of the inside of her thighs.
A rhythm feverish then measured then greedy again.
The spill of her hair across luxurious white sheets.
Her voice, begging, urging, pleading, cajoling, teasing, ordering.
The cold of her bare toes—they were always cold, he remembered that—the feeling as familiar and intimate a knowledge as her most secret wetness.
That sense of reaching for something shimmering and just out of reach as he thrust into her.
The way her whole body tightened as she came, every muscle straining. His own orgasm a release, the bars of a cage flying open, a soundless howl, a taking and a giving.
And then he collapsed on top of her, both of them panting, skin slick and sticky. So close he couldn’t tell where he ended and she began. Their breath fell into sync, the rise of her back matched to his exhale. He buried his face in her hair, his eyes closed, nose filled with the smell of her. They lay together, floating in a world beyond words. Finally, she cleared her throat. “Wow. You did miss me.” “You have no idea.”
She blew a breath, shifted slightly, and he moved to lie behind her, spooning. Sunlight spilled across their bodies. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe we ought to fake my death every so often, just to spice things up.”
His laughter was almost as good as the orgasm.
When he could move again, they untangled themselves. She sat up, yawned. Stretched her arms wide, then sat cross-legged, every inch of her body exposed. She had always been completely unselfconscious about nudity. He’d loved that, loved that it was only for him, that she had always refused to do it for the screen, to share her body with the hungry eyes of strangers.
“I hate to spoil the mood,” he said, “but can we talk?”
“Where do you want to start?”
“How about the part where you’re alive.”
Laney reached for a pillow, dumped it in her lap, lay her hands on top of it. Her expression was hard to read, the traces of satiation mingling with something else, fear maybe, or regret. He flipped onto his back, put his arms behind his head, content to wait her out.
Finally, she began to speak.
5
EXT. DANIEL & LANEY’S MALIBU HOUSE—AFTERNOON
LANEY THAYER digs keys from her bag, unlocks a powder blue VOLKSWAGEN BEETLE. She slings the bag into the passenger seat, cranks the engine, and opens the security gate.
Her fingers open and close nervously on the steering wheel.
LANEY
It’s okay. He’s not here. It’s okay. She takes a deep breath and pulls out.
EXT. MALIBU STREETS—CONTINUOUS
Laney drives fast. Her eyes dart from mirror to mirror.
She turns without signaling. Pulls through parking lots, does a loop, comes out going the opposite way. Circles the block several times.
Eventually, she gets on the . . .
PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY—CONTINUOUS
Laney blows past hotels and surf shops, past Pepperdine, past the houses of the uber-rich perched on rocky cliffs.
Traffic is light and she’s making good time. Malibu is well behind, L.A. approaching. A light goes from yellow to red. She reluctantly brakes.
A car noses out of a canyon behind her. Sunlight off the windshield hides the driver’s features.
The car turns in her direction.
Laney bites her lip.
The car draws closer.
LANEY
(to the traffic signal)
Come on.
(glancing in the mirror)
Come on, come on . . .
The car comes closer. Closer still.
Laney is about to gun the Beetle through the light—and a stream of turning cars—when the car behind her rolls under a tree.
The shadow reveals the driver to be a middleaged woman with a bad haircut.
Laney laughs.
LANEY
Twitch much?
A horn sounds a quick beep-beep.
Slowly, she turns her head.
From the driver’s seat of the NISSAN XTERRA next to hers, BENNETT waves.
LANEY
No.
She jams on the gas.
Horns squeal as she tears across the intersection. She dodges between cars.
Laney risks a glance at the rearview. Her sudden acceleration caught Bennett off-guard, but the Xterra is following—and gaining.
LANEY
Shit.
Her fingers dig divots in the steering wheel.
Laney reaches for her bag with one hand, begins to rummage through it.
LANEY
Come on, come on.
She finds her cell phone. Glances in the mirror, pales to see Bennett right behind her. He wags a finger reproachfully.
LANEY
Screw you.
She flips open the phone. Her hands shake as she tries to dial.
Laney glances down at the phone, sees that she has punched in 8-1-1. She grimaces, clears the number, begins to dial again.
The Xterra honks twice.
Laney jerks her head up.
A large DELIVERY TRUCK is right in front of her.
LANEY
Shit!
She drops the phone, grabs the wheel with both hands, yanks to one side.
The front of her car barely clears the bumper of the delivery truck.
But now she is in the wrong lane, facing oncoming traffic.
She gasps, starts to turn back to her lane, realizes she’ll collide, and instead puts the accelerator to the floor. The Volkswagen is moving past the delivery truck, but slowly.
And in front of her, a battered OLD PICKUP is approaching fast. It holds down the horn. LANEY
I see you.
She continues racing forward, playing chicken at reckless speeds.
Bennett has followed her into the wrong lane. She is now hemmed in, death on all sides.
The pickup is incredibly close.
Laney grits her teeth, glances at the delivery truck beside her. Almost there.
The pickup brakes hard, rear tires smoking and slewing sideways.
At the last possible second, Laney throws the wheel to the right, shooting in front of the delivery truck.
Squealing tires and angry horns fill the afternoon air as the pickup loses control. Its rear end slides too far, and suddenly it is sideways in the road.
The delivery truck reacts, jerking aside to try to avoid the collision. Too late. The pickup broadsides the truck, and both spin out of control.
But Laney is past.
And better still, as the two trucks drift to a stop, she sees that they have blocked off the PCH.
Bennett’s Xterra is trapped behind them. Laney yells, laughs, punches the roof of the car.